Hiraeth
by terriku
Summary: It was like looking through a mirror and seeing what I could have been if things had gone differently.
1. wolves in the snow

Red on white. Cold snow on warm flesh. Dichotomy. Foreigner and native. Two and the same. It is a contradiction given flesh. No one likes a contradiction. No one wants a mongrel. The moon rises in the morning sky. The bare trees are heavy with ice. The silence screams. In this land her blood quickens.

_Throw her to the wolves and be done with it. If the spirits are kind, the cold will dull her pain and the wolves will make quick work of her. She is only a child._

She rises, pushes herself out of the snow, and she laughs. Her hand rises to her neck and finds it still slick with warm blood. The wolf had sunken his fangs there just as she had sunken her knife into his neck. Her cut had been desperate, but his bite had not been deep enough. The wolf was strong, but she, oh she is stronger. And in this land, only the strongest survive. She forces herself to her feet. The world spins, but she stands and she does not fall. The familiar pommel of her dagger protrudes from the neck of the wolf and she wrenches it free. Its blood pooled in the snow and across her hands. Warm blood on cold snow. Cooling flesh and heated breaths. Girl and wolf. One dead, and one still living.

Red on white. It is a beginning.

* * *

A little side-project of mine that I am entertaining since I don't have Word on my new computer yet and can't open my WIPs. （´Д`;）


	2. dog eat dog world

She doesn't remember how long she has walked. The sun has risen to the peak of the sky and fallen. The faint shadow of the moon still hangs in the sky, and the shifting shadows of the forest tell her that time has passed. She doesn't know how long she has walked since the wolf. She doesn't know how much longer she can walk. Already the world is spinning. It spins and it spins and the land continues moving even when she has stopped.

This is it. She can go no farther. This is the extent of her strength. This is all she has.

It is not enough.

She wills herself to keep standing. She grits her teeth and mentally lifts her foot, imagines taking another step and then another and another. Endlessly forward. There is not other way, she must go forward. But this strength exists only in her mind and imagine as she will, she cannot lift her leg. The snow seems heavier now, heavier than ten elk, heavier than anything she can lift. Her own traitorous foot is heavy beyond belief. She wants to stand but her calves burn. She sinks knee first into the snow. _Up_, she thinks, _I must stand up_. But for the first time in her life, will alone cannot help her.

"What have we here?"

She jerks towards the voice, mind racing, heart pounding. Words she doesn't recognize. Steps she hadn't heard. The man is wearing leather boots and a cloak of unknown make. _White-man_, her mind says. But it matters not, white-man or native, everyone is dangerous. And this one, the one that she hadn't noticed at all, is particularly dangerous. Her knife is in her belt, her knife, her knife, her knife. Her belt, her knife is tucked into her belt and she reaches for it as the man gets closer. Instinct. Her belt, her knife, she must get her knife, quickly, her knife. She needs her knife if she even wants to dream of living.

He is faster. In the time it had taken her to notice and assess the danger he posed, he had already closed the distance between them. She looks up and under the man's cold gray gaze she feels fear, pure unadulterated fear, course through her body. It is paralyzing. It is demeaning, it is embarrassing, it is horrifying. Her hand closes around the handle of her dagger but she cannot move. Is this what a deer feels as it stares a wolf in the eyes? Is this what it feels like to know that death is coming and that there is nothing that can stop it?

_But, no_, she thinks, _no I am not a deer_.

Her grip tightens on her dagger, and she grits her teeth. _I am not a deer. I am not a deer. I am not a deer. I am a wolf. I am stronger than a wolf._ And she pushes forward, out of the snow and into the air with a strength that she had previously lacked. On her lips is a feral growl that any man acquainted with death would recognize.

He simply steps back and she falls short. Her calves burn. She has walked for days. Her blood leaks from the wound at her neck, carving rivulets through already dried blood. She lunges again. And a third time. Each time she lands in the snow, but she grits her teeth and pushes herself up. Again. Again. She does not want to die. Death is an end, she must move forward, she wants to live.

The fifth time she lunges at him, he catches her wrist and holds her in the air. She struggles, and when that is not enough to loose the man's grip, she bites. She drives her teeth into the man's wrist. He simply releases her. The snow is not enough to cushion her fall and the ground is mercilessly hard. The world spins and there is darkness in the corners of her eyes. He crouches. His mouth moves and the world fills with words that she does not understand.

"Do you want to live?" He asks.

She doesn't understand, but she looks him straight in the eyes and her gaze does not falter. No fear, no fear. But then there is darkness, and the last thing she remembers is the cold gray of his eyes, and that the snow is a little softer than she had first thought.

Haytham looks down at the little native girl, not older than six, and he sees something. Something, given time, that could become a valuable asset. Perhaps, even a weapon.

* * *

Just a heads up: this is a personal project and includes an OC. If that isn't your thing, then this isn't the story for you.


	3. lamplight

She wakes in a place that is completely and utterly unfamiliar. It takes a few moments for the world to settle around her and come back into focus. She shifts her head to the right and is surprised to see a flame. The lamplight flickers. It is night. She sits up and pushes the heavy blanket off her chest. Her dagger. She reaches into her belt but it is not there. Panic races through her, and she spins her head left and right trying to locate it. The room is bare save for the bed she lies on and the nightstand and the lamp. She slides off the bed, feet flush against the wood. Every step she takes makes the floorboards creek and the lamp fire dance.

"I see that you are awake."

The man, the same man, with the cold gray eyes is standing in the doorway. She jumps. It is the second time she has been caught off guard by the same man, and it does not bode well. She sinks against the bed frame, pushes her back between that and the nightstand so that she has no openings. She spits words and hisses and she bares her teeth hoping that he will remember what they felt like against his skin. She wants to scare him away even if it is her that is scared.

"But I assume that you cannot understand me. Alas, that does make things harder." He steps forward. She scoots back. He steps forward. She grits her teeth. If he comes any closer, if he is foolish enough, she will tear his throat like the wolves do. She may not have her dagger but that does not mean she is not dangerous. She does not need a dagger to be strong. She repeats thought this until she believes it.

He kneels down and places something on the floor between them. He lifts his hands and holds them in the air; he looks at her with a raised brow of expectation. "See," he asks, "you can have this back."

It is her dagger. She glances at it, glances at him, and back to her dagger. Is this a trap? She waits, she observes. The man says more words that she does not understand, but his hands do not move. She can feel the expectation in his eyes but she doesn't know what he expects her to do. There are too many variables, but even if she does not need the dagger, she feels safest when it is in her hands. So she lunges for it. She half expects him to strike her down before she gets to it, but he does not. He is still crouched on the floor, but the look in his eyes tells her that she has reacted exactly as he expected. She doesn't know why that makes her angry, it just does.

They stare at each other for a time. Neither moves. She holds her dagger, ready to react to anything he does. He simply stares at her with those gray eyes. The lamplight flickers, casting shadows around the room and across his face. Then, suddenly, he stands. She falls back on her butt in shock from the unexpected movement.

"Well," he says with a sigh, "it's clear you don't understand what I am saying. But I suppose that is what we have Johnson for."

In comes another man, this one draped in a familiar cloth. She narrows her eyes and hisses at him too when he comes a little too close. The man shoots Haytham a look and backs away.

[We will not hurt you], he says, laying his hands in the open to show her. [We do not want to hurt you. We do not mean you harm.]

Her eyes shift from one man to another. This one has blue eyes that are warm and she wants to believe what he says. But words are never absolute. Whitemen do not speak the truth.

[Words are wind,] she spits, and points her dagger in Haytham's direction, [and that one has wolf eyes.]

Johnson smiles. He lowers his hands and points at Haytham too. [That man, his name is Haytham, and he is the one who saved you. If not for him, then you would surely be dead in the snow now.]

She stares at these two whitemen, unsure if she should believe them. It is hard to imagine any whiteman saving a child such as herself. Yet, she does not have any recollection of what happened between the time she fainted in the snow and the time she woke up in this room. Yet the man with gray eyes, Haytham, is present in both memories, both locations. It does not seem possible but it seems like the only explanation.

[You must tired, we will speak more in the morning. For now, rest.]

She stiffens when the man hoists her back up onto the bed. He pulls the thick blanket back around her and blows the lamp out. In the darkness, she can hear the footsteps of the two men, and she imagines she can feel the lingering gaze of Haytham. She turns, eager to shake that feeling, and falls asleep.

—

"Well?" Haytham asks when they are back in the main room of the inn.

"She speaks Kanien'kéha, so I believe she is one of the Kanien'kehá:ka, just like the woman you met at Southgate."

"Is it possible she knows anything about the Precursor site?"

"I believe it is very unlikely. The place you found her is far from where we think Kanatahséton might be. She must be from a different village."

Haytham considered Johnson's words. He was right. He had been far away from Ziio and her village and her sacred cave when he'd run into the child. The chances of her knowing anything were slim. But, then, he hadn't brought her back because he thought she had information. He wasn't thinking about that at all. At that time, what Haytham had thought about was her tenacity, her courage, and her will. All noble qualities.

"What are you planning to do with her in the morning?"

"Why, William! You seem rather concerned for her."

"She is just a child."

"Child or no, she took down a wolf by herself. I saw it's carcass and by chance decided to follow the trail. That's how I found her walking half dead in the snow. As for what we will do...if she has family, you can send her back after we ask a few questions. If she doesn't, then all the better. I'll keep her."

"Keep her, sir?"

"Yes," Haytham said, picking up his hat, "keep her. Raise her. Train her. I am sure, she can contribute a lot to our cause."

* * *

At this stage, the girl can only speak Kanien'kéha, but rather than make them italic (which I use for thoughts) I decided to just put them in [brackets] since Johnson speaks both Kanien'kéha, as well as other Native languages I assume, and English. Hopefully it's not too confusing.

For some reason, no matter how many times I listen to Haytham's voice I can never capture his speaking style. It's not prissy and proper and snarky enough. qq


	4. here's a start

The next morning, she wakes to sunbeams on her face. They filter through the windows and fill the room with light and warmth. For a moment, she considers turning over and going back to sleep. But then she remembers that this is not a safe place. She is in the den of men, and one of them scares her more than anything she has ever met. She is young, but still old enough to recognize strength when she sees it. No, returning to sleep would be foolish. She slips out of the bed, feet pressing into the wooden floor. Her dagger is on the nightstand and she tucks that into her sash so that the worn and familiar handle is within her reach. The familiar weight of it pressed against her belly is comforting. She exits the room and searches for the exit.

Escape is, however, impossible. Down the stairs at the end of the hallway, she finds Haytham, Johnson, and one more man sitting at a table. Haytham notices her first, and catches her eye. That makes her freeze. She had descended the stairs as quietly as she could, but it seemed, nothing she did could get her past his gray eyes. He motions to an empty chair across from him, "Please, do join us for some breakfast."

She doesn't understand what he says but she walks to the chair and sits in it. There is something about this man that makes her want to listen to him. Perhaps fear, perhaps respect, perhaps both and something a little more. Johnson, the man from last night, is on her right and he translates Haytham's words for her. He also places a pewter mug in front of her. She stares at it and does not drink until the others do. It is too big, too heavy, for her to lift with one hand like the other men at the table. With two hands, she lifts the mug to her mouth and takes a sip. Cold frothy milk spills against her lips and trails down her chin. It tastes odd, and a little bit of metal, but it does not disagree with her. Though, then again, she would drink blood if she thought it would quench the dryness in her throat.

When she has finished the milk and eaten her way through the bread offered, she is aware of a wary anticipation in the eyes of the men around her. They are waiting for her to finish. They want something from her. She puts the pewter mug back down.

"Well, then I do believe that we have some questions for our little guest here."

No sooner are the words out of Haytham's mouth do the questions begin.

[What is your name?]

[I don't have one.]

Johnson's eyebrows crease.

[Surely, you must.]

[I didn't like it so I threw it away.]

The man, the one who speaks her language, translates quickly and she does not miss the glint in Haytham's eyes. She cannot tell if it is annoyance or amusement or something else, but her gut tells her that he is not displeased with her answer. Maybe whitemen valued names a lot less than her mother's people. To not have a name was to not have a fate, to not have a life. To not have a life was the same as not existing. It is, in a way, fitting. But if the whitemen understand the meaning behind her words, she does not know. Maybe whitemen valued names just as much as the Kanien'kehá:ka. Maybe they didn't.

Haytham makes a little waving motion with his hand and tells Johnson to move on. If she doesn't want to speak of her name, then it matters little. A mere child's name is not the information they are looking for.

[What tribe is your family from?]

She stares blankly back. Family implied things that didn't apply to her. Family meant warmth in winter, comfort in summer and acceptance. She had felt more of that in the wolves' fangs than she had felt in the arms of her mother. Johnson repeats his inquiry again, as if she had not heard or perhaps not understood.

[I don't have one.] She says at last.

[A tribe?]

[Family.]

The whitemen ask a lot of questions after that. Johnson translates them, most about her family or her tribe, but she says nothing. Sensing that there is nothing further to gain, the questions progress to other tribes; to the land she lived on, to the customs of her people, and finally to a temple. She doesn't want to think of that place or those people ever again, but she answers what she can with monosyllabic answers. Finally, Lee slams his mug down on the table in frustration and she jolts. Her eyes meet his and the frustration and annoyance she finds there is not unknown to her. "Speak, you foolish child! Or is your brain incapable of forming words of more than four letters?" He demands, and though Johnson leaves his words untranslated, she can guess well enough what Lee wants. It is not Lee she is scared of, it is Haytham. And though he has said little, she can sense that perhaps his patience is running out too.

She turns to the one who understands her language and says very calmly, [I do not know anything about what you seek or your temple, but among my people, those from Kanatahséton are revered and hated. They claim to guard holy land, but in war they will never rally to the aid of their allies.]

That answer seems to satisfy them because after that, they chatter amongst themselves for a long while. As they talk, she looks around the room, takes note of the stairs and the windows and any other possible way to escape. Her legs don't hurt anymore and she is not hungry or thirsty or tired. She should be small enough to slip through their fingers. In the time they talk, she thinks of three ways to escape but does not act on any of them. Instead she waits. When they are done, they turn to look at her, and Haytham speaks.

"Since you have no family, would you like to stay here instead?"

It is only when Johnson translates Haytham's request that she understands. From the very moment they had first met, she had been trapped. From the very beginning, there was no escape. She had been thrown out to die by her mother's people, only to be taken in by the whitemen, her father's people. Ironic how things worked out.

[Yes], she says. Haytham smiles at that, the smallest quirk of his lips, but it is more than enough for her.


	5. makhai

She learns her way around the men quickly. Johnson is the kindest. He talks to her in Kanien'kéha even though Lee insists that it is something she should put aside to learn English. [It'll be our secret,] he says and when she nods in quiet agreement, the man smiles. Such kindness makes her weary but for all that she can tell, Johnson is sincere. It is comforting in an odd way and so she thinks that after Haytham, she is fondest of Johnson.

Lee is not very fond of her. She can see the disdain in his eyes, but it does not bother her. He is no different from all the others in her life, and at least Lee respects Haytham enough to refrain from hurting her. He respects Haytham enough to give her lessons in English, in culture and in etiquette. She is a willing student but he is never satisfied with her progress. This does not bother her either, for it is not him she seeks to satisfy.

Of Thomas Hickley, she is unsure. He talks too fast and his words are slurred with alcohol and colloquialisms she does not yet know. And though his tone of voice might suggest ambivalence or annoyance, he occasionally procured an apple or a knob of bread, or sometimes, a sweet, from within his sleeves for her. He teaches her to fight dirty, to measure up a man from fifteen feet away, and take advantage of everything around her. When she first comes back with the contents of a man's pocket, Hickley ruffles her hair.

John Pitcairn reminds of harsh granite worn with wind and snow. He insists on teaching her to read maps. White-men need maps, she thinks, but she does not. She can memorize the lay of the land. She does not need paper to remember when the brooks merge into creeks into rivers, or when the hills rise into mountains and shape valleys. But he says the world is larger than what her mind can hold, and so she continues to study.

She is not sure if she is fond of Haytham, or if she simply fears and respects him. She doesn't think its fear because she wants to satisfy him. She wants to live up to Haytham's expectations, and she wants to exceed them. She wants Haytham to be proud of her. She wants to be useful. She wants Haytham to find her useful. She wants to be wanted by him.

One day, when he returns from a trip, he summons her to his study. She waits in front of the door for fifteen minutes before he lets her in. She steps in and waits. Haytham speaks when it suits him, and she is in no rush.

"You don't have a name, not one you will divulge anyways. So we'll give you one."

"I do not need a name," she says, "I am your wolf-pup. That is all."

"No, even a dog needs a name."

She bites the defiance from her tongue. Haytham strokes his chin. She is so familiar with the gesture she can emulate it. She does not, but that is not to say she cannot.

"Are you familiar with Greek mythology?"

She shook her head. Her bangs swung in front of her eyes and obscured her sight. Haytham waved her over to look at the book that lay open on the table. The image staring up at her is that of a great bearded God, lightning in one hand, shield in the other.

"Zeus," Haytham explains, "ruler of the Olympians."

He traces the shield at his side. She stares at it and the hollow eyes of the shield stared back at her.

"Alke. How does Alke suit you?"

"Fine."

She would not have protested anyways but there is a little seed of pride in her stomach to have received something of value from Haytham. A name was a purpose, it was an invocation of fate and a reaffirmation of worth. _Alke_, she repeated to herself. _My name is Alke._

* * *

I am 100% sure Haytham was just reading a book and thought it was fitting. He probably didn't put much thought into Alke's name, poor kid. But I am not Haytham, so here's a little background on her name:

Alke (Alce/Alkê) was the female personification of battle-strength, prowess and courage. She was one of the Makhai (Machae/Makhê), or the gods/spirits of battle combat. She, along with Ioke, Eris and Phobos were spirits that resided on the famous Aegis which bore the head of Medusa.


End file.
